Thrust/Throb: Lost Devils MC - Book 2

  Thrust/Throb

  Lost Devils MC - Book 2

  Madison Faye

  Copyright © 2020 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv

  Photography: Josh Mario John

  Model: Wander Aguiar

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  Contents

  Thrust/Throb

  Thrust/Throb Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Thrust/Throb

  Cocky bastard. Loose cannon. Devil on two wheels.

  Three rules: be ready to fight, keep your nose out of other people’s shit, and never stop moving. I’ve lived my entire life at 180 miles an hour, with no brakes.

  Until the day she comes crashing into my life—beautiful and broken, like a perfect storm. I never should have touched her. She never should have moaned for more. Because Delphine’s more off-limits than I ever could have dreamed.

  See, I’m in deep with a small-town thug. But it turns out, it’s not our debt I want to settle. It’s his woman I want to take.

  Except Delphine’s never really been his—not when she was sold to the prick to settle her scumbag father’s debt. But now, the prick who mistakenly calls her “his” wants to marry her up and cement his claim to the underworld throne.

  But that ain’t gonna happen. Not once I’ve had a taste of the forbidden. Not once I’ve laid hard eyes and rough hands on the only real good I’ve ever known.

  Stealing her could destroy us both and bring a hell down on my brothers and my club. But loving her is going to make me break every single rule I have.

  They call me a Lost Devil. But this devil just found salvation, and I’ll storm hell itself to make her mine.

  Thrust/Throb Playlist

  Beat The Devil’s Tattoo - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

  Horns - Bryce Fox

  NFWMB - Hozier

  Bad Things - Rayland Baxter

  Broken Boy - Cage The Elephant, Iggy Pop

  To Hell With The Devil - Jim Bianco

  My Least Favorite Life - Lera Lynn

  You Rascal You - Hanni El Khatib

  Wicked Games - Chris Isaak

  Crazy In Love (Remix) - Beyoncé

  Closer - Nine Inch Nails

  Golden Lonesome - Glorietta

  Don’t Go Away - Oasis

  Prologue

  Oliver

  “Do you want to die?”

  For most people, there might be a fairly obvious and quick answer to this question. There’s a right solid chance that the answer might even come a little faster when there’s a gun in your mouth. But, I’m not most people, and the answer is slightly more muddied than that. Okay, yeah, sure, the basic answer is “no.” But it’s never that bloody simple, now is it?

  A week ago, I might have given Bryce the finger and told him to go fuck himself—not because I have a death wish or because I actually want to die, it’s just the way I’ve lived my life. Hard, fast, and without brakes. I’ve been that way since I was five—why change things up for a limp-dicked prick like Bryce Barnes?

  “Hey!” Barnes stares at me before turning to giggle like a fuckin’ schoolgirl with his mates. “Is he fuckin’ retarded?”

  To be fair, it’s a little hard to talk with four inches of cold Desert Eagle steel between your teeth. It’s like being in the dentist’s chair when the cunt starts asking about your holiday. No, you daft geezer, I can’t tell you how Spain is this time of year with half your fucking hand in my mouth. It also puts into sharp perspective any question a man has ever asked a woman while she’s blowing him. I guess the difference is, you can tell the dentist to fuck off. You can take a dick out of your mouth.

  Bryce Barnes’s gun is only leaving my immediate vicinity when he damn well decides, and there’s a good chance that his decision depends on what I say next. And as we’ve covered, speaking ain’t exactly an easy feat right now.

  This is what you’d call a tricky situation.

  “Listen, you stupid, stupid little fucker,” Barnes grunts and pushes the gun against the inside of my cheek. I can taste gun oil and dirt and the coppery taste of metal. The grit and grime of the abandoned warehouse bites into my knees through my jeans, and I can feel the trickle of blood down my temple.

  On a good day, Bryce Barnes is not what you’d call a balanced, rational individual. That’s actually putting it lightly, like saying Ike Turner “wasn’t the best husband” or that Jeffery Dahmer wasn’t an ideal neighbor. In normal circumstance, it’s not like Barnes needs a reason to have you on your knees in the middle of a crime-scene-looking abandoned warehouse with a gun in your face. In my circumstance though, it’s warranted.

  Well, to him it is. To me, justice would be taking that gun, sticking it down his throat, and pulling the trigger until I paint this place with whatever shit fills his head.

  But here’s the problem: at the end of the day, I stole what was his. I put hands on what wasn’t mine. I saw something beautiful, and good, and pure, and I put my dirty hands all fucking over it.

  All over her.

  “Listen you limey little cunt,” Barnes hisses and leans close. The gun presses hard into the side of my fucking cheek, and I grunt.

  “I said, do you want to die?”

  The answer, if things were simple, is no. Like I said, a week ago, I might have flipped the geezer off, told him to go fuck his mother, or if I was feeling especially, well, me, maybe just go ahead and pull my dick out or something. But that was then, and this is now. And now, things are different. Things have changed.

  Now, there’s a light in my life I never knew before. I never actually wanted to die before. But now, I want to live. But this situation isn’t that simple. Nothing ever is in life, especially when you’ve lived it at a hundred-eighty miles an hour on two wheels and no brakes like I have.

  Barnes isn’t really asking me if I want to die. He’s asking me if I want to turn over and sell out my brothers, and my soul. He’s got me on my knees asking me the impossible—choose between the brothers and the club that gave me a second shot at life and who would walk through hell for me, and the woman I love.

  That’s why my mouth is shut. Or, as shut as it’s going to get with his gun filling it.

  “Blow his fuckin’ head off, Barnesy!”

  I turn my eyes towards the peanut gallery and roll them at Jay, Barnes’s thickheaded cunt of a second in command.

  “Mfmmmgg.”

  Barnes frowns. “The fuck did you just say?”

  I repeat myself. “Mfmmmgg.”

&nbs
p; Barnes’s brows perk up. “Well shit, is reason finally getting through that fuckin’ head of yours?”

  I shrug, and nod at Jay again. Barnes frowns and beckons him over. “Him? You’ll talk to him?”

  I nod, and he grins. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ talking about! Morrison! Get the fuck over here.”

  Jay shrugs and flicks his cigarette away. He strolls over until he’s standing right over me, and he nods at Barnes. His boss grunts and pulls the gun out of my mouth, and I gasp. I clear my throat and spit on the ground as Jay leans down over me. With those beady little eyes and that stubby little nose, the cunt always looks like a right pig to me.

  “Well, what is it, douchebag?” he grunts. “You gonna tell us what we want to hear?”

  I nod, looking at the ground, and he chuckles a wheezing laugh. “Speak, dipshit.”

  I mumble something, and he scowls.

  “The fuck was that? Speak English, fuck head!”

  “He speaks English, dude.”

  Jay whips his head around and glares at the other blokes from their crew. “I know he speaks English, retard! I meant American English!”

  Barnes ain’t exactly recruiting PhD students into his crew out here.

  The guy shrugs, and Jay turns back to glare at me. “Well?”

  I mumble again, drooling slightly as I look at the ground. Jay scowls.

  “You break his jaw, boss?”

  Barnes frowns. “Nope.”

  Jay leans down closer, right over me. I smile.

  “Alright you dumb English cunt. You gonna tell us what we want to hear, or are we gonna—”

  I jerk my head up hard, catching Jay right in the nose. He screams, spraying blood all over the place. But while the shit hits the fan and while he grabs his nose, I slam my forehead forwards, head-butting him right in the fucking bollocks. The little bitch goes down hard, screaming and clutching his balls while I just start laughing my ass off like a fucking maniac.

  Barnes roars, grabbing me by the throat. And suddenly, metal fills my mouth again. I choke on the gun, suddenly unable to breath as I look up into the enraged face of the man who I stole from.

  The man I took from.

  The man who I’d do it to all over again, a million times out of a million times. Because what I took wasn’t his to keep. What I took was mine to hold, and to possess.

  What I took was her, and I’d take her again, even if I knew every outcome would lead right here, to me on my knees with my death sentence filling my mouth with the taste of copper and gunpowder.

  “Last. Fucking. Chance.” Barnes hisses through clenched teeth, glaring at me. “We both know the only reason I haven’t skinned you alive is because of what’s in this dumb fucking head of yours. You can spill it now, or I’m gonna spill your fuckin’ brains on this floor. And then?” he grins wickedly. “Then I’m gonna make her clean it the fuck up.”

  As if on cue, there’s a screamed swear. My blood chills, and every muscle in my body clenches. I whip my head around, and I roar as I lunge to my feet. But Barnes and three of his goons shove me back down, and a blade goes to my throat.

  There are two of them hauling her out of the van. Our eyes lock, my smoky blues on her pretty green ones, and I don’t blink.

  “Her,” Barnes growls. “Look at her, that stupid fucking slut. Because that look of horror and disgust in her eyes when I carve your fucking face up first is gonna be the last thing you see.” The knife leaves my throat, and his gun levels against my forehead, right between the eyes.

  “No more games, fuck head,” he growls lowly. The gun pushes to my head, and time goes still. I look at her, she looks right back at me, and I see forever and eternity in her eyes. I can feel the ways she moves under my hands, taste her sweet lips on mine, and hear her whispered words and lover’s prayers in my ears.

  I see everything that’s happened, and everything that might have been. I see every choice made—every wrong turn, every right one, and every corner I never even looked around.

  But it doesn’t matter. Every road and every choice lead back to her anyways.

  “I’m counting to three,” Barnes says quietly.

  I don’t blink

  “One.”

  Her face tightens, but she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t give them what they want.

  “Two.”

  My heart slows. My eyes don’t blink.

  “Three,” Barnes almost whispers. The gun hammer cocks with a hard, metal click.

  “Time to die, Oliver.”

  So, now you know how this ends. How about we go back to the beginning?

  Chapter One

  Oliver

  Earlier:

  She purrs beneath me. There’s a throb that pulses between my legs, rumbling through my cock as she opens up for me. My hands tighten, and she groans before she screams into the night. My pulse pounds, my fucking skin burns with heat, and the world blurs around me until it’s just me and her, rushing into oblivion.

  She’s so fucking wet, too. Fuck, it’s soaking my jeans through, and running down my fingers. It’s running down my face, too, actually—the both of us totally fucking soaked.

  And we’re close—so fucking close I can taste it, and I urge her on. My grip tightens, my jaw clenches, and my eyes harden as they pierce the night in front of me. I can see the flicker of neon up ahead, and the adrenaline rush—the drug of all drugs—blazes through my veins like fuel, making me wild, and free, and fucking hard.

  So close. So fucking close. She screams, the tires bite as I take the last turn, and then I crank it, pushing the throttle to its fucking limit until my girl roars like a bloody demon down the dark road. She’s sex on two wheels, and I ride her like bat out of hell—hard, wet, and with no brakes.

  But as the neon approaches, I do brake. I don’t have a fucking death wish, after all, I just want to get the bloody hell out of the driving rain that’s brought visibility down to damn near zero. I can ride, and have ridden, through pretty much anything. Just like I can fix anything with a motor and spinning wheels. But this is pushing it.

  I’m far enough from Blackthorn that I’m not making it back to the clubhouse in this shit. And I’m not close enough to the race to get there. Shit, I don’t even know if there will be a race tonight. Either way, I’m going to go off the road or into a bloody tree if I keep at it, so when I see the neon, I slow. I pull into the diner parking lot and turn off the purring and throbbing matte black and chrome Harley Fatboy between my legs.

  “Good girl, Lucile,” I grunt as I swing a leg over and off.

  What? I named my bike. Get over it.

  The diner parking lot is empty except for an old dinged up teal blue F150 pickup truck. I could run, but it doesn’t matter, I’m already drenched through. I mutter to myself and storm up the two steps to the diner’s door. It’s a retro looking spot, doing its best to look welcoming, which isn’t easy this close to a shitty town like Dark Water Falls. The rain isn’t doing it any favors, but neither is the fact that it’s fucking empty inside. Whatever though, it’s dry, I’m assuming.

  Thunder booms and lightning crashes as I yank the door open and trudge inside. The door clanks shut behind me, hitting a little bell above it.

  “Hello?”

  The voice is soft and musical. A second later, the saloon doors to the kitchen swing open, and she walks out.

  Well, fuck me.

  Her blonde hair is piled high on her head, with a few little tendrils floating down to curl around the edges of her face. But blimey, it’s that face that has me frozen. She’s beautiful. I don’t even just mean she’s hot, or sexy, but she damn well is. I mean she’s gorgeous in this classic Hollywood sense of it. She’s beautiful like the girls from the American flicks we used to sneak into the Royale Cinemas in Shoreditch to go see when we were kids.

  She freezes when she sees me too, and those sharp, piercing green eyes flick to mine. She’s got a pen tucked behind one ear, ketchup stains down one side of her not-flattering yellow and
white waitress outfit, she’s wearing scuffed plain white sneakers, and she’s carrying a stack of laminated menus in her arms against her chest.

  And she’s still the most gorgeous bird I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “Um, hi,” she says. Her eyes hold mine, and she sucks her bottom pouty pink lip between her teeth. Her dark lashes blink, and she swallows thickly.

  I realize I probably look like a maniac from a slasher film, standing here in soaked jeans, leather jacket, hoodie, and boots, with my beanie pulled low and my beard dripping. I yank off the hat and unzip the jacket as I clear my throat.

  “You closed?”

  She blinks again at the sound of my voice. Yeah, most people aren’t expecting foggy fucking London town to fall out my mouth like Doolittle marbles.

  She swallows again though, catching herself and maybe even taking a little breath of relief when it’s clear I’m a customer, not a hatchet killer.

  “No.” She frowns. “Well, I mean…”

  Yeah, that’s a “no but I feel bad saying it” if I ever heard one. Also, now that I’m in here, I realize that the only lights on are the ones behind the counter. I’m not gonna push it, either. I mean, it’s dark, it’s late, she’s obviously alone here, and I’m a six-foot-three bearded stranger covered in tattoos. I’m about to ask if I can just wait under the diner’s awning outside when she clears her throat and puts the menus down on the counter.